


So Finely Depicted

by EnduringParadox



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealousy, Just for the monster-hunting bits, M/M, Missionary Position, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Romantic Fluff, Smut, Some Humor, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, mild posessiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:28:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29277741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: Geralt recognized that tussled brown hair, that small scar near the man’s hip, the scattering of freckles at the back of his upper thigh, the very way he held himself on the bed, pliant and sweet.Jaskier. The baron had a painting of what appeared to be a post-coital Jaskier on the wall of his study.---Geralt kills a cockatrice for a baron. The man offers him any valuable possession in his household. In the baron's private art collection Geralt spies a very familiar figure and, of course, must have the painting for himself.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 44
Kudos: 560





	So Finely Depicted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elizabethgee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/gifts).



> A present for my friend elizabethgee! Just a little idea I had. Hope you enjoy it!

A cockatrice had killed and eaten the baron’s horse. It’d been chewing its way through the farmers’ livestock for the past few months, at first satisfied with a sick cow or an older ewe. But then, facing little to no opposition to its appetites, it began to pick off the healthier, sturdier beasts. There was no family that hadn’t lost a prize animal. It’d even mauled two men looking for a few lost sheep; one had been disemboweled then and there, while the other, maimed by its beak and claws, died of infection some days later.

But of course that hadn’t been an issue until the cockatrice had gotten brave enough to scuttle from its nest and surprise the baron’s hunting party. His wife had tumbled off her own mare as it reared in panic at the sight of the beast, the hounds had howled and snapped as they leapt out of range of the cockatrice’s tail, his guards had run to assist the baroness, and the baron, cursing their luck, had been knocked right to the ground as the cockatrice pounced on his horse, dug its talons into its flesh, and brought it screaming to the dirt.

“Poor creature!” the baron lamented when Geralt and Jaskier met him at the gates of his castle. “There was never a finer horse. The _ancestry_ on that beast—its pedigree was longer and more storied than some of the family trees of the so-called gentry that visit my home! I’ll pay you well, witcher, I promise you. I want that monster’s head mounted on my wall.”

When they arrived at village the farmers surrounded Geralt and Jaskier and begged for their aid to slay the cockatrice that had been destroying their livelihood and took the lives of two of their own. They offered everything they had, and even pooled together it was not much.

Jaskier said, with a wide, dazzling smile and a sweep of his arm, “All we need is a room with a comfortable bed, a hot bath, a couple of freshly cooked meals—And a place for me to play, if possible.” He patted Geralt’s arm. “The White Wolf is a man of simple pleasures. A full stomach. A roof over his head. His bard’s music, to lift his spirits and that of those around him as he prepares to vanquish ferocious foes.”

After they’d eaten and when the people had been cheered by Jaskier’s singing they were shown to their room with a clean bed and a tub of hot water waiting for them.

“A man of simple pleasures?” Geralt grumbled.

Deft fingers removed his shirt. Jaskier’s hands roved over his chest. “Oh, darling, don’t be cross with me. There’s nothing wrong with wanting the simpler things in life. A hearty meal, a soft bed—”

Geralt grabbed his ass, pulled them flush together, and growled, “A good, hard fuck.”

“You _brute_. At least get my clothes off first.” Jaskier’s laughter was as sweet as his music. “But, are you very upset about the payment? They just seemed so—desperate.”

Desperate enough to welcome a witcher with open arms and offer everything they’d scrimped and saved for to kill the predator that’d been plaguing them for months.

“The way I see it,” Geralt said, “we’ve got two different contracts. These people have given us room and board for killing the beast that’s been taking their livestock and their friends. But the baron’s asked for someone to slay a cockatrice that ate his prize horse and to bring back its head. I’m sure he’ll pay quite well.”

And then he pulled Jaskier into the water, chuckling at the bard’s indignation at having his clothes soaked through, dodging playful slaps as he tugged Jaskier’s tunic off to press his lips to his exposed shoulder.

“ _Brute_ , ” Jaskier said with a sigh. He tolerated Geralt’s kisses with a slight pout and a complaint. “This ensemble was quite expensive, you know.” He waved a hand in front of all his sodden silk.

Geralt grinned against his throat. “Wouldn’t know. I’m just a simple man. The finer aspects of life are lost on me.”

“ _Hmph_! Well, I’ll have you know that I myself am quite a _fine_ figure. Maybe I should find a man who recognizes my exceptional qualities.”

A growl left Geralt’s throat. He could feel Jaskier shiver with delight at the sound of it. “You’re a work of art, Jaskier. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

“A work of art?” The bard hummed. “That’s more like it. Now, my dear witcher, why don’t you give me that good, hard fuck you were talking about?”

The hot bath was nice, but in the end they didn’t end up much cleaner.

* * *

The next morning as Geralt dressed he took the chance to watch Jaskier sleep. The bard had practically clambered on top of the pillow, his arms wrapped around it, his snores slightly muffled by his face pressed into the pillowcase.

The night before Geralt had bounced him on his cock, the hot water sloshing around them until Jaskier collapsed against him, breathless and boneless, the water filthy with their cum. Afterwards they’d simply dried off and crawled into bed and into each other’s arms, exhausted from travel and their pleasurable exertions.

He was still naked, only partially covered by the blanket. Calves muscled from their travels, ass pink and rosy, shoulders and neck marked with love bites. Purring like a cat, utterly content. And it’d been Geralt who’d created such a scene, fucked the bard to leisurely bliss and a restful sleep. He hated to have to leave.  
Perhaps Jaskier could sense the change in Geralt’s mood, because he stirred and mumbled, “We going? I’m almost up, give me a moment.” A line of drool trailed down his chin.

The loveliest sight in the world, Geralt thought, fondly. But at Jaskier’s words he shook his head and said, “No, you’re staying put.”

“Excuse me?” The bard pushed himself up.

Geralt repeated, “You’re staying put. It’s too dangerous.”

“Oh, come now, I’ve yet to see a cockatrice. How am I supposed to sing of your marvelous feats if I can’t watch you perform them?”

He crossed his arms. “Here, I’ll tell you. Larger than a bull. Able to carry off a horse. Head of a rooster, sharp beak, sharp talons, sharp tail. Feathers and scales. It can fly.”

Jaskier’s voice pitched to a whine. “But _Geralt—_ ”

“And it’s killed dozens of livestock, a mare sixteen hands high, and two men. It’s quick, it’s vicious, it’s dangerous, and _you’re staying put_. This isn’t a negotiation.”

“ _Brute!_ ” Jaskier hissed. He chucked the pillow at Geralt, who let it bounce off his chest and fall to the floor. Jaskier flopped back onto the bed, one arm draped dramatically over his eyes. “To think I let you spill your seed inside me.”

Disappointed, but teasing. Geralt stepped to the bedside and brushed Jaskier’s cheek with his thumb. “You’ve let me do a lot more than that.” He smirked.

“Well, I think with my heart.”

“And your cock.”

Jaskier gave a haughty sniff. “I love and adore you, you absolute vulgar _cad_. Even when you refuse my company and leave me all to my lonesome.”

“I’m sure you’ll find some way to entertain yourself while I’m gone.”

“What was that? I can’t hear you. I’m already composing a ballad about a handsome, witty, kind, and generous man who wears his heart on his sleeve and awakes after a night of passionate lovemaking to find that his so-called paramour has left him with nothing but cold sheets and _regrets_.”

Geralt said. “ _Hm_. Will you sing about how much the man likes it when his paramour licks the cum from his thighs?”

“It’s a lament, not a bawdy drinking song, darling.” The bard pulled the sheets back up over the lower half of his body. “Do be careful, Geralt. I’ll need you to tell me the tale when you get back.”

Their cozy room, Jaskier’s words, their goodbye kiss—it would have been very domestic had Geralt not been setting off to slay a monster.

* * *

As it turned out, finding and killing the cockatrice was the simple part. Geralt spent a day tracking it, searching for stray coal black feathers and scrutinizing the muddy fields and grass for signs of its talons.

Some of the dead shepherds’ kinsmen tried to follow him at first. They tailed him like ducklings following their mother, one holding a pitchfork, another holding a pair of shears, and yet another who, from the greenish tinged of his skin, appeared to be trying to hold in his breakfast.

“Do we have an, uh, a strategy, Sir Witcher?” the nauseous-looking man asked. He swiped half-heartedly at the branches, as if he were lazily swatting a fly.

Sir Witcher. He’d have to tell Jaskier that. It’d make him laugh.

“I had a plan,” Geralt said. “To track the cockatrice. And then kill it.”

The one with the pitchfork stabbed at the ground. “Excellent.”

“I might amend it slightly.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve two options. Either you three can be attacked and slain by the creature, and distract it with your still-warm corpses while I kill it. Or,” Geralt said, looking into their wide-eyed faces, “You all can return home and tell your family that I will deal with it myself. This is a dangerous task. Your people have lost too much already.”

They stared at him. The one with the shears trembled as he spoke. The blades shifted in his hands, slice at the air, sharp and metallic. “The baron knew from the first cow it took. We told him there was something coming from the woods. None of it mattered. Not the cows, not the sheep, not my cousins. Not until his wife fell on her ass and his horse got its entrails ate.”

In fact, the baron had barely mentioned his wife. It was his horse with the fine pedigree that he was distraught about. A cockatrice’s head as revenge for his finest mare. But Geralt responded, quietly, “They mattered.”

The man gave him an appraising look. “You’ll be paid well for this, won’t you, Sir Witcher?”

“I will be. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t think what’s happened here is shameful.”

That seemed to satisfy them well enough. The trio turned around and ambled through the brush, back the way they came, back to their farms and their grieving families.

Cockatrices tended to live in caves or ruins, but Geralt found his quarry in an abandoned house.  
It’d been built deep into the woods, away from the rest of the people in the area, and had long since been reclaimed by nature. Dilapidated, wood rotting and sunken here and there, overgrown with moss and other vegetation. Perhaps the original owner had died, or perhaps they’d been the cockatrice’s first victim, but either way the structure had been repurposed into a dark, damp place for the beast to make its nest.

If the cockatrice had needed to settle somewhere else then the rotting house was as good a place as any. Far smaller a nest than what Geralt had seen before, but it was safe place to rest, and extremely close to a food source.

Speaking of—

As Geralt drew closer he caught the scent of it. The sickly sweet scent of decaying flesh, the musty smell of feathers flecked with dried blood and guts, the odor of cow skin and sheep’s wool and men’s fear.

He saw it moving behind the windows, wings brushing against the walls, slipping in and out of sight as it prowled to entryway. Wider than the usual specimen. Thick with its plentiful feedings, perhaps. But it still moved with a predatory grace, wings folded against its back, craning its neck in an almost serpentine fashion to watch Geralt with beady red eyes. Beak and talons sharp enough to rip a man to shreds.

He was glad he’d convinced the men to leave. He was glad Jaskier waited for him in the comfort of a warm, soft bed.

The cockatrice stared at him. Then it reared back and let out a resounding shriek, and Geralt got to work.

* * *

The guards saw the creature’s head tied to Roach’s side and blanched.

“The baron,” Geralt said, curtly. His shirt was ripped and blood-stained. The cockatrice had swiped wildly at his chest during their fight. He’d dodged only fast enough to be scratched instead of gouged. The wound stung, but not terribly. Jaskier would no doubt fuss over it. He looked forward to the bard’s dismayed exclamations and stern scoldings and his gentle hands fluttering over every bruise and hurt, cleaning his ripped and battered body with warm water, a soft cloth, and boundless affection.

But the baron wanted to _talk_ , damn him.

Pompous and vain and obsessed with appearances, the baron delighted in the cockatrice’s head and delighted just as much in having a witcher walk his halls. It would apparently be quite the topic of discussion among his friends. What a strange, fantastic thing, to have Geralt not only kill the beast that had ruined the baron’s hunt and slew his prize horse, but for the witcher’s boots to leave flecks of dried mud and muck on the floors, to have him throw the cockatrice’s head on the table, upending goblets of wine and sending plates and cutlery to the floor with a clatter. How delightful it was to speak to him in the way that nobles did, hiding condescension behind courtesy, and to have Geralt do nothing but grunt or sneer.

“You must tell me how you did it, witcher. Look at the beak on this thing! What a fight it had to have been!”

Geralt said, “You paid me to kill it. It’ll cost extra to tell you how.”

Chortling, the baron said, “Ah, cost extra—how droll. Yes, indeed. Speaking of payment, witcher. I’ve amassed a number of valuable possessions over the years. Choose whatever strikes your fancy. I guarantee you anything in this castle will be well worth your hard work.”

He seriously doubted that. There was no doubt that the baron was a wealthy man, but it was impossible for everything he owned to be worth the price of a cockatrice’s talons. This was, Geralt suspected, both a kind of joke and a way to cheat him out of his payment. The upturned utensils were gilded, the plates encrusted with large but low-grade jewels. Geralt walked slowly around the room. He picked up a candelabra. The scent and weight of it in his hand—gold foil on iron. The tapestries on the walls were probably the most valuable things in the room. Except—he narrowed his eyes at the baroness, with her necklace of colorful gems the size of robin’s eggs. She gasped and covered it with a pale hand heavily adorned with rings.

Yes, he’d take the necklace. But not after making the castle’s inhabitants sweat. Geralt pretended to take interest in a particularly ugly serving platter—silver, with the baron’s heraldry stamped on its center and studded with tiny rubies like angry red pimples around the edge—and then said to the baron, “Show me the next room.”

“P-pardon me?”

“You said anything in this castle will be worth my while. Well, I need to see all that you own before I make my choice. So take me to your next room.”  
If the baron refused then Geralt would demand his payment in gold. If he agreed Geralt would spend a few hours sifting through the baron’s possessions, stinking gore and touching everything with rough, dirty fingers. Either way it’d make Jaskier howl with laughter when he told him later.

The baron’s smile became a little more strained. He replied, “Of course, you’re completely right.”

So Geralt hemmed and hawed and pretended he was interested in rugs and decorative shields and silk bed sheets and enjoyed the growing panic on the baron’s face as he insisted on seeing what else the baron had.

But when they reached the eastern most part of the castle the décor changed.

Numerous paintings adorned the walls. Some were merely coquettish. A young woman, her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders, smiling as she admired a string of pearls that rested on her collarbone. A handsome, roguish man laying in a tree’s shade, propped up on his elbows, a come-hither expression on his face.

Others were more suggestive. Geralt paused to look at a depiction of two maidens collecting honey. One had a handful of the stuff; it flowed down her fingers and onto her wrist. The artist had painted the honey in thick, golden, brushstrokes, layered on top of her dark skin. The other maiden, eyes heavily lidded, cheeks pink, eyes alight with mischief as she brought her mouth to the other’s sweetened skin.

It seemed that the baron could not help but be pleased at Geralt’s attention. “Perhaps you are a man of culture, eh, witcher? That’s not even the best in my collection. Here, follow me.”

He led them to the study. Rich and opulent, it was filled with more pieces of art than books.

Smooth, lithe, nude figures carved from marble, draped across their pedestals, intricately detailed from the sensual upturn of their lips to their hardened nipples to their long, delicate fingers running along the inside of their thighs. Bronzes statues with glittering eyes, with graceful curves or thick, rippling muscles, but all standing bare and proud to all who viewed them.

But what caught Geralt’s eye was another set of paintings arranged over the baron’s desk. They were astonishingly intimate pieces. Each framed canvas held the likeness of a man or a woman resting on a bed. Every figure was completely nude and in a state of exhaustion; they faced away from the viewer, skin flushed and sweaty from exertion, limbs supple and tangled in the bed sheets. Geralt presumed the artist had changed the color of the sheets to best fit each subject: a dark, rich red, a soft, calm blue, and one—

One painting held a very familiar figure reclining on a deep, plum purple.

He was turned away, like all the others, back to the viewer. He rested with his head in his arms, propped up on a pillow, his ankles crossed at the foot of the bed. A thin sheen of sweat coated his creamy skin that glowed, here and there, with the lightest kiss of pink from the artist’s brush—on his shoulder blades, the small of his back, the swell of his ass. All of the subjects in the collection of paintings exuded the pleased, exhausted air of someone who had just been given a good fuck.

But Geralt knew this man _intimately_.

Geralt recognized that tussled brown hair, that small scar near the man’s hip, the scattering of freckles at the back of his upper thigh, the very way he held himself on the bed, pliant and sweet.

Jaskier. The baron had a painting of what appeared to be a post-coital _Jaskier_ on the wall of his study. Had he commissioned it? Was this entire wall a tribute to his conquests? Geralt imagined the baron’s lips against Jaskier’s neck, his hands around his waist, and then, in short succession, imagined strangling the baron and throwing him out the window.

“It is quite the lovely collection, isn’t it? _The View from the Doorway_ , the artist called it. They’re all marvelous works. Look how detailed the brushstrokes are here.” The baron pointed to Jaskier’s hair. Geralt fought the urge to slap his hand away. “All the figures are anonymous, of course, but there was a rumor that some of them were members of noble households. That caused quite a furor. There were calls to burn the pieces lest they besmirch any great family’s honor. And that only made the paintings more desirable. Dear me, the _cost_ of these—but they were worth every bit of gold, I assure you.”

He chuckled, patting Geralt on the back as if they were old friends sharing a secret.

Geralt said, “I’ll take this, then. This one.”

The baron gaped at him. “Well, I—a painting? Surely there’s something more useful to you here, witcher. I’ve many things you can sell—”

“I’ll take the painting,” Geralt growled. “And what I do with it is my own business. I killed the cockatrice, and I brought back its head. You told me in front of your entire household that I could take one item out of all your possessions.” He pointed at Jaskier’s lounging, nude figure made up of long, graceful brushstrokes of pink and peach, the sea of rippling plum purple that was the silk sheets. “This is _mine_.”

* * *

Geralt did not regret his choice, not for a moment, but a framed painting was a bit difficult to travel with to say the least. He had it wrapped with a bolt of fabric and tied closed with a length of sturdy string. Roach, who had transported odder items, gave it a disinterested sniff as he strapped it to her back.

The baron watched him as he left, looking not a bit disconsolate at losing such a priceless work of art. The baroness stood by him, prim and proper and anxious to see Geralt leave. “Thank you for your hospitality,” Geralt said with a smirk. Once more she gasped and grabbed at her necklace, as if he would suddenly reach out and yank it from her throat. Ridiculous. He had what he desired already.

Carrying the painting to his and Jaskier’s room at the inn, however, was more of a chore than he expected. It was not heavy, but the shape was slightly awkward and besides that Geralt had the fear that he would drop it, or the fabric wrap would come loose, and then every man and woman getting in the place would catch a glimpse of his bard in the most intimate of situations.

So he gritted his teeth and cradled the thing up the stairs and into the room with all the care in the world. He found Jaskier writing at the table by candlelight, lower lip bitten red as he frantically crossed a line he had found wanting. As Geralt shut the door behind him Jaskier glanced up, smiled, and then went back to scratching ink into parchment.

“Hello, darling,” he said, eyes on his work. “I will greet you properly in one moment, just let me finish my thoughts here. Almost done, and…There we go. Now, my dear witcher, what is that you have there? That’s not a cockatrice’s head, is it? It’s rather—flat and rectangular.”

Gruffly, Geralt said, “It’s _you_.”

“I beg your pardon?”

In answer Geralt untied the string and unwrapped the fabric and held the painting up to show the bard his own backside.

Jaskier practically _blossomed_. He stood up, writing forgotten, and walked toward Geralt with obvious excitement. “Is that—Oh, Geralt, wherever did you find this?”

Geralt said, in a strangled voice, “The baron’s private study. A—gallery, I suppose. It was full of—similar _pieces_.”

Jaskier perked up at that. He smiled and said, “ _Well_. At least the baron has some _taste_ in fine art. And a collection, you said?”

Geralt nodded.

“I wish they’d gone somewhere more, _hm,_ _deserving_ but I’m glad they’re still around.” He held either side of the portrait’s polished wooden frame and gazed fondly at it. “I thought they’d burned all of them. Hennie’s fiancé threatened to castrate Armand—he recognized a lovely little birthmark on her forearm. But of course he couldn’t outright say that because then everyone would know Hennie had posed for quite the _scandalous_ painting. But, dear me, did he whip up a frenzy.”

“I recognized _you_ ,” Geralt grumbled. He hadn’t meant the comment to come out so—irritable.

The bard set the painting down and said, still smiling “So you did. That’s very sweet, Geralt. What gave it away?”

What hadn’t? Geralt had seen the exact same sight countless times. He never tired of it; watching Jaskier stretch languid and sated on the bed, skin marked red from where Geralt’s stubble had brushed against it. Along his neck, down his back, between his thighs. Never tired of hearing the sigh of utter contentment and the rustle of the sheets as Jaskier nestled into the bed to rest after being pounded into the mattress. Of course he knew his lover’s body, the shape and contours of him, the details of his body. Of course he knew every one of Jaskier’s scars and marks as intimately as his own.

But this seemed a lot to say, so instead Geralt answered, “I know what you look like when you’re—” Lounging after a good fuck. “I know what you look like _after_ ,” he said, feeling somewhat bashful.

“Are you upset, my dear?”

“No!” Never, he liked that Jaskier has taken countless lovers before him. It meant that he knew exactly what he liked, could croon his commands into Geralt’s ear as their hips ground together. It meant that out of everyone he’d ever laid with, it was Geralt he wanted again and again and again and _only_ Geralt. But something about the painting… “It’s _different_ ,” Geralt said. “I don’t like the idea of people seeing you like that. A fuck is one thing, but _this_ is—“

“Someone seeing me in the afterglow?” Jaskier offered. When Geralt nodded he added, “More intimate than just a tussle in bed?”

He placed his hands on Jaskier’s hips. “It’s someone _keeping_ you that bothers me. You’ve given many a person a fond memory.” At that Jaskier smiled. “But I—can’t abide another owning your likeness. Not like that. And not someone like the baron to _lust_ over in his private time,” Geralt growled.

“You’re mad with jealousy over another man owning an anonymous, nude portrait of me? Am I getting that right, Geralt?”

The bard was teasing him. He said, defensively, “I know it doesn’t make sense—”

“Love rarely makes sense, dearheart.” Jaskier’s smile turned impish. He tapped Geralt on the nose with his forefinger. “My big, strong, scary witcher, protecting my honor. Taken from the baron’s private collection and—wait, Geralt. _How_ did you get the painting? No one’s been maimed, have they?”

With an affronted air Geralt asked, “What do you take me for?” as though he hadn’t just an hour before entertained thoughts of strangling the baron in his study and making off with the portrait like a thief in the night.

“A jealous lover,” Jaskier answered. “Should I introduce you to Hennie’s fiancé? Well, her husband, now—you two can discuss the destruction and censorship of art.”

“I don’t want to _destroy_ it. I just don’t want anyone else to have it.” Then, acutely aware that what he’d said made him sound very childish, Geralt changed the subject. “It was payment. The portrait. He wanted to pay me with something from his collection. I asked for the painting.”

Jaskier gasped. His set the portrait against the table and stared down at it, hands on his hips. “Oh, Geralt, you should’ve taken a—a bracelet studded with rubies and diamonds, or a statue of gold, or—a _cockatrice_ , Geralt, you wouldn’t even let me come with you. Look, and your shirt is torn as well, and you’re _bruised_. You should’ve taken whatever riches he offered you, not _this—_ ”

“Didn’t want riches.” Geralt brushed his lips against Jaskier’s neck. “Wanted you.”

“How— _ah_!” He cried out as Geralt’s teeth nipped at his skin. “How romantic. And terribly shortsighted. Whatever are we going to do with a portrait?”

“Keep it.”

“On the road?”

“Just for a little while. I’ll get it to Kaer Morhen. Put it in my room.”

“I see. The start of your own private art collection.”

“Wouldn’t need anything else. Nothing’s as good as you, all fucked out and exhausted on the bed.”

Jaskier teased, “Well, if you have the painting then you hardly need _me_.” His fingers trailed to the front of Geralt’s laces, lightly stroking his cock. “All those pretty works of art—How often do you think the baron stroked himself to the sight of it all? To me? Do you think he might’ve recognized me when we met? Perhaps if he saw more of me from behind…”

Geralt snarled like a wolf. He hoisted Jaskier up—the bard whooped with delight and wrapped his legs around Geralt’s waist—and threw the both of them down onto the bed. While Jaskier covered his face and neck with kisses he growled, “People can have a memory of you. A handsome bard who gave them the best fuck they ever had. But I’m the one who gets to have you—to keep you. Isn’t that right? You’re _mine_.”

“So _possessive_. As if anyone holds a candle to you, darling— _oh!”_ He cried out as Geralt yanked his pants and tossed them to the side. Jaskier let his legs fall open, his cock twitching, and said, “Careful, now. Aren’t I a work of art? You have to be gentle or I just might break.”

“I’ve bent you in half plenty of times,” Geralt said. “But I’ll go slowly when I stretch you open. Get you ready for my cock.”

“Well, then.” Jaskier nestled back against the sheets with a grin. “Oil’s in my bag, Geralt.”

They’d fucked just the night before; Jaskier easily took Geralt’s fingers, gasping and writhing on the bed as Geralt slipped another digit inside of him. The bard clenched around him as the pads of his fingers stroked his inner walls. When he did not increase his pace Jaskier gave a strangled laugh and whined, “Oh, you villain—you _cur!”_

“But not a brute,” Geralt murmured. He kissed Jaskier’s outraged face. “Didn’t you say I had to be gentle with you? “

“And you said I could take it. You. All of you—oh, _Geralt!_ ” Another cry as Geralt gave a quick twist of his wrist. “Please, darling, I missed you. I need you.”

Geralt’s heart swelled with pride and surged with affection. He gently eased his fingers from Jaskier and shucked off his own pants. The air was cool on his aching cock; he took it in his hand and stroked it, looking down at Jaskier, flush and pretty on the bed, chest heaving, staring at him with such obvious adoration it made his face heat with blush. Nevertheless when he spoke his voice was steady. “What did you miss about me?”

Jaskier readily replied, “Your lips on my neck, your voice in my ear, and your cock inside me.”

Well, Geralt could give him all that and more. He shifted onto the bed, lined his cock up to Jaskier’s ready hole, and sank into him with one deep, smooth thrust.

“Oh, yes, Geralt,” Jaskier moaned, “That’s it, my love. I’m all yours.” His lips were moist and slightly parted and Geralt wanted nothing more than to kiss him. As he continued to rock inside Jaskier, gritting his teeth at the hot, tight heat, he leaned down so that his palms were on either side of Jaskier’s head and so that he could slip his tongue inside the bard’s sweet mouth.

The bed creaked with their movements, the headboard slamming against the wall. Jaskier _purred_ with every roll of Geralt’s hips, every wet brush of their tongues. His legs wrapped around Geralt’s waist once more, wordlessly urging him deeper.

A thin string of spit clung to their lips when they pulled apart. “Go on, Geralt,” Jaskier urged him. “I want you to make me _ache_ tomorrow.”

Geralt buried his nose in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, inhaling the scent of his sweat and lust. His thrusts turned frenzied, frantic. The sounds of Jaskier’s moans and the debauched, wet slaps of skin against skin, the feel of him writhing underneath him—it was worth more than any amount of gold he could have received, better than the painting. To be able to touch Jaskier, to hear him, to taste him, to hold him close and to be held and know that he was _his_.

“Geralt,” Jaskier panted, “Geralt, _please_ —”

He reached between them, grasped Jaskier’s cock, and stroked until the bard’s back arched and his nails dug into Geralt’s back and he came with a shudder and a gasp all over Geralt’s hand and stomach. Geralt felt Jaskier’s limbs go loose, legs relaxing and feet pressed to the mattress, arms falling against to the sheets, eyes half closed, lips parted into a satisfied smile.

“Oh, my love,” he sighed.

Those few words, said so quietly, so softly, never failed to bring Geralt to his peak. A low groan left his throat as he came, hips still moving in short, stuttering thrusts as he spilled inside Jaskier. He collapsed on top of Jaskier, completely spent and feeling quite like he’d made his point, silly and irrational as it might have been.

The bard murmured, “That was quite nice. Did you miss me too, Geralt?”

He always did. Geralt kissed the corner of Jaskier’s lips. “I thought of you when the baron asked me to choose my payment. He said I could take anything in his household. I told him that I needed to see everything he owned, then, before I made a decision.”

As expected, Jaskier was delighted. He burst into laughter, hugging Geralt to him, gently rubbing his shoulders and back with his hands. “My clever witcher. Did nothing else catch your eye?”

“I made sure to look at everything. Closely. Turned it all over in my hands,” he said as Jaskier let out another loud bark of laughter. “But nothing was as nice as your portrait.”

The bard sniffed. “Oh, you’re being very sweet, but I highly doubt that. I saw that man’s outfit. Ostentatious, but moneyed. Surely there were many valuables to choose from.”

Geralt considered this. Jaskier’s fingers carded through his hair. His heartbeat slowed to the steady, satisfied calm of the afterglow. Finally Geralt said, again, “There were. But there wasn’t anything I wanted more than you.”

Jaskier tapped his nose with a fond expression. “It's just a _portrait_. You already have me, Geralt. You know that, don’t you?”

They were sprawled in bed together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and cum and mussed sheets, flushed and laughing.

“Yes,” Geralt murmured, with a small smile, “I know.”


End file.
